


Cerulean and Steel

by opheliarose



Series: Cerulean and Steel [2]
Category: Wallflower Series - Lisa Kleypas
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliarose/pseuds/opheliarose
Summary: The notorious rake Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent had never given much thought to the self-dubbed "Wallflowers". That is, until he met miss Evangeline Jenner's eyes.
Relationships: Annabelle Peyton/Simon Hunt, Evangeline Jenner/Sebastian St. Vincent, Lillian Bowman/Marcus Westcliff
Series: Cerulean and Steel [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136375
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Cerulean and Steel

In the ballroom of Stony Cross Park, four men and four women decorated opposite walls. 

The pair of men cut handsome figures against the dark mahogany, illuminated by golden candlelight. The tallest and broadest among them was Simon Hunt, who had recently wed one of the lovely wallflowers spread out on the chaise facing the men, Miss Annabelle Peyton, now Mrs. Hunt. 

Next to him was the master of Stony Cross Park, Marcus, Earl of Westcliff. He possessed the same dark features and strong frame as Simon, but stood a good six inches shorter than his comrade. Despite his average height, he was an intimidating figure not to be crossed. His brother-in-law, Gideon Shaw, was an American with the weathered features and carefree disposition characteristic of his nation, his smiling eyes watching his wife, Westcliff’s sister Olivia, with the adoration of a newlywed. 

Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent stood in contrast to his companions’ ruggedly masculine appearance. While he still possessed all the graces of masculinity, from his tall frame and broad shoulders to his smooth, strong hands, his features were polished and pure as a fallen angel. His dark blonde hair curled gently like spun gold silk, while his striking eyes were a rare shade of cerulean in a feline shape that pierced through his prey. 

Those eyes surveyed the room and the feminine forms therein with languid amusement. 

“Tell me, Westcliff, who are those picturesque young nymphs?” inquired Sebastian, gesturing to four beauties decorating the adjacent chaise sofa. 

He had seen them all before, of course, at balls and formal events, some for several seasons now, but he was dreadfully bored with the proceedings and their merry band seemed a welcome diversion. 

“Well, the golden haired goddess is my wife,” said Simon with a warning look to the notorious rake at his side. 

“Oh come now, Simon, how long have you known me?” asked Sebastian in mock indignation. 

“Exactly,” retorted Hunt. 

“Why would I interfere with matrimonial bliss when there are so many unhappily married ladies in need of my attentions? Besides, I consider you a friend and I have no intention of disrupting your marital congress. Messy business, that, and rarely worth the risk I’ve discovered.”

His companions chose not to inquire about his experience with married women, which they were all certain must be considerable. 

“What about the spirited Americans?” he asked, diverting their attention to the two chocolate haired girls who sat side by side. The elder was tall and lithe with a coltishly athletic figure rarely seen in ladies of the ton. The younger was dainty and plump, and stood scarcely above five feet. Both had vivaciously dark almond eyes. 

“The eldest one is Miss Lillian Bowman,” interjected Westcliff. “The tall, lanky one with the foul manners and even fouler tongue.”

“You really needn’t fill my head with thoughts of her foul tongue, Marcus,” Sebastian teased, observing that while her sister’s lips were thin and delicate, Lillian’s lips were unusually plump and red like a strawberry in season. 

Westcliff shot him a glare so vicious that St. Vincent’s usually calm demeanor shrank momentarily. 

“And the sister?” he asked disinterestedly. 

“Oh, ah, Miss Rose Bowman,” Westcliff stammered hastily as an actor trying to remember his lines. “They are excessively fond of flora in the former colonies it seems.”

“Daisy,” Simon interjected softly with a curl of amusement at his mouth. Shaw let out a chuckle that only served to fluster his brother-in-law further.

“Yes, Daisy,” Westcliff hastily corrected. “Quite.”

Sebastian, Simon and Shaw snickered at their companion. 

“And the delectable red head?” He gestured to the one currently decorating the wall as though she could melt into it like one of Michaelangeo’s prisoners. 

“That is Miss Evangeline Jenner,” said Westcliff dispassionately. 

No title accompanied her lovely moniker. Sebastian suddenly had an urge to test each syllable on his tongue.

“Evangeline,” he echoed softly, deliberately. “What a positively heavenly name.” He smirked at his own jest. 

Although not the most conventional beauty among them, she possessed a certain innate grace - not on the dance floor mind, but in her very air - that spoke of innocence and femininity and shy touches and sighs. 

Her bosom, which was much to his chagrin mostly obscured by her woefully unflattering gown, was decorated with small pearls as though to whisper to him of the treasures beneath. Her bust was fuller than that of any of her friends, and her waist dipped sensually only to flare out into luscious, fleshy hips that he longed to grasp in his palms. He doubted she was even in need of a corset to cut such a figure. 

Her luscious lips, from which her infamous stutters escaped, were pink as a rose bud and promised to be just as delicate and sweet. An overwhelming urge washed over him to bite those lips and then sooth them with his own. 

She reminded him of one of Botticelli’s girls dancing naked in the forest or standing proud among crashing waves. 

“Don’t you dare,” warned Westcliff, his voice low and threatening. 

“I never dare, I just do,” said Sebastian with a smile, his eyes sweeping languidly over Miss Jenner’s ill-clad form. Were she his and were he wealthy as he posed, he would adorn her form in silks and kisses. 

“Besides, there is nothing wrong with marveling at the Lord’s creation. I never feel closer to God than when I’m looking at a lovely lady.”

“Do not blaspheme,” whispered the scandalized Westcliff while Shaw sighed and shook his head and Hunt simply chuckled into his glove in unspoken agreement. 

“I have no love lost for any of the self-described Wallflowers, though I concede to being wrong about Mrs. Hunt,” said Westcliff, noticing Simon’s ever-intensifying glare. “Nevertheless I cannot allow you to pursue an innocent whilst under my roof. Miss Jenner is admittedly a sweet girl, despite her flaws, and I will not permit you to bring scandal to Stony Cross Park.” 

Sebastian arched a dark gold eyebrow as if to ask, “Have the stones of the Cross not already been thus polluted?”

“What flaws, in your observation, does she possess?” asked Sebastian, now observing the liquid pools of her eyes and finding himself quite unable to come up for air. 

“Despite her lack of graces and a stutter that makes you tense whenever she speaks?” scoffed Westcliff. Sebastian innately had to disagree with her lack of grace, but he had yet to hear her speak. He imagined she would have a soft, sweet voice, like a small, distant bell beckoning him. 

“Her father owns a gambling hell,” Westcliff whispered as though it were a shameful confession. “In truth, she is only here because of the wishes of Mrs. Hunt, and admittedly that of the Bowmans, whose father I wish to enter into a business arrangement with.” 

“Ah, I see, so the circumstances of one’s birth should determine the company you keep?” interjected Simon with a slight scowl. 

Westcliff’s dark eyes grew wide. 

“We both know I did not mean it like that, Simon.”

“How did you mean it then?” added Sebastian in mock boredom. He had always known Westcliff to favor his own stock. Perhaps that was why they were friends in the first place despite Marcus’s disapproval of the way he conducted himself. Lord Westcliff was a man who sought control in all things, like an expertly structured dam fit to burst without warning. 

“Only that your fortune has been honestly earned, Simon,” defended Westcliff. “Don’t forget I am your business partner as well as your friend. I know the world is changing, but the Jenners are associated with the dregs of society. Miss Jenner is born of gambling money, she has not earned her fortune for herself as you have.”

“Of course not,” scoffed Simon. “Women cannot very well attend university or enter into the locomotive industry.”

“Fascinating as this topic is, I’m afraid talk of machines bores me and it’s terribly gauche to discuss money in public,” said Sebastian with a sip of champagne. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I think I need another drink.”

Before either of the men could protest, St. Vincent strode across the room, his golden head a beacon turning every lady’s eyes to him like a sailor to a lighthouse. 

Sebastian drifted to the opposite end of the room to observe the wallflowers more closely in their natural habitat, blending in with the floral pattern of the wallpaper. He knew it would not do well to approach the elder Miss Bowman, as Marcus had made it quite clear that he had marked his territory, even if he himself did not realize it. He had never understood men’s need to lay claim to the women of their desires as they would a country conquered. Why claim what would eventually be freely offered?

It was clear that Lord Westcliff possessed an arduous affection for the elder Bowman sister, and if their heated exchanges were anything to go by, she shared his sentiment of loathing tinged lust. Certainly Miss Bowman’s passionate temperament would make her an amusing bedroom partner, but a fearsome life partner. He pitied them both. 

The same courtesy extended to the younger sister, who was by extension under the watchful gaze of Lord Westcliff. She was very pretty in her own right with her sun kissed skin and round cheeks. 

That left only Miss Jenner vulnerable to his amorous gaze. She was even lovelier up close, with constellations of freckles lightly dusting her porcelain skin like golden flecks on a vase. Were they alone, he might kiss each freckle and trace their path to her bosom. As it was, he restrained himself and met her gaze, steel piercing cerulean. 

She started when she realized he was looking at her, a shy smile curling at the corner of her sensuous mouth, her brilliant eyes downcast in a display of modesty. How was it that the loveliest of creatures were so often unaware of the power they possessed? She was meant to be the fairy creature of Keats or the subject of the sculptor Pygmalion, not Cinderella in desperate need of new shoes. 

He flashed his most dangerous of smiles, the kind that met his eyes and brought out his inner boy. He could have sworn he glimpsed her blush flicker in the candlelight before she turned back to her chattering companions who were now observing him like a particularly sensual sport. 

With a final nod of his head, he turned to retreat. Marcus was right of course. He could not make overtures to any of them. They deserved good marriages and needed the title he could provide, but would not. He had long since sworn never to marry. 

Yet Sebastian St. Vincent was a man accustomed to getting his way, not by force of will as Westcliff did, nor by sheer determination like Simon Hunt. No, in his experience, the things he wanted usually fell into his lap with time and patience. Prey was always all the sweeter when it was willingly surrendered. 

With one last fleeting glance at the stuttering sylph in the corner, he left Stony Cross Park with a passing premonition: one day Evangeline Jenner would be his.


End file.
